


secret for the mad

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Series: let's dance in the kitchen and call it something like love [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), And there's dancing in the kitchen at three am, And two gay bois being soft to eachother even though things aren't always easy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyways basically Kon is going through a hard time, Arguing, Bisexual Kon-El | Conner Kent, Boys In Love, But only because DC refuses to let TIM GROW UP, Cheesy, Dancing, Dork Kon-El | Conner Kent, Established Relationship, Even if he be a tired boi, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Gentleness, Goof soft bois, Growing Up, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Kon-El | Conner Kent Feels, Kon-El | Conner Kent Needs a Hug, Kon-El | Conner Kent is Superboy, Kon-El | Conner Kent-centric, Love, M/M, Or gives a hug, Protective Kon-El | Conner Kent, Protective Tim Drake, Sleep, Sleepiness, Slice of Life, Slow Dancing, The good kind of cheesy, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake is a Good Boyfriend, Tired Tim Drake, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, When people fight but it's not the end of the world, dancing in the kitchen, either way, hopefully, just a little bit, soft, tim is a good boyfriend, what more could you want???, working through things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: It's three in the morning and they're dancing in the kitchen.Life is not perfect. It's not easy, or even simple.But it's theirs.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Series: let's dance in the kitchen and call it something like love [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665436
Comments: 22
Kudos: 172





	secret for the mad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fandoms_ruined_me123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_ruined_me123/gifts).



> For Fandoms_ruined_me123, who prompted: "i was wondering if you not to busy for maybe a timkon(yes i know you already did one and i loved it!!) where tim gets back from an argument with bruce/dick or kon from an argument with clark and it’s like three am in the kitchen."
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3
> 
> Title from Dodie's Secret For The Mad

He’s holding a glass between his palms, a purposely loose grip as he glares metaphorical holes into the table. But  _ only _ metaphorical holes, because Kon promised and Tim might actually take out the kryptonite if they have to make  _ another  _ trip to Ikea.

_ Breathe, breathe:  _ you are in control.  _ You  _ are in  _ control. _

Kon likes to think of himself as an easy going guy. It takes a lot to piss him off in a serious way. He’s been working on his temper, been working on finding himself in this world that does not stop, that pushes and pulls and rocks ever onwards. He’s been working on it, he  _ has,  _ but-

_ But- _

(And there always is one of those, isn’t there?  _ But, but, but-) _

But Clark has this way about him that just….  _ irks  _ him. It jars something deep inside of his chest and it makes him grind his teeth together and it makes him want to  _ scream,  _ because the man speaks with this tone of voice that just oozes with condensation, as if Kon is nothing but some snot-nosed kid, as if he’s a particularly unpleasant piece of trash in need of recycling, as if-

As if Superboy is  _ nothing. _

_ You are in control,  _ he thinks,  _ you are in control. _

Their relationship is better than it once was. It  _ is. _ And yet every time they meet up Kon is walking on eggshells because one wrong word and Superman withdraws, withdraws, pulls away. Or otherwise, and this is almost  _ worst,  _ the full blooded Kyrptonian will look at him with _ pity. _

And he hates it. He hates it so much. It burns like fire and it clogs his throat and he never asked for this, he never asked for any of this, he never asked to  _ exist- _

Glass shatters in his hands, spills across the table top and skitters onto the floor, water sloshing  _ everywhere,  _ getting on his shirt and making a sopping mess of the napkins.

He swears. Nothing in particular. Just anything that comes to mind.  _ Stupid,  _ he thinks,  _ stupid. Some superhero. Stupid.  _

So much for control.

He stands too quickly in order to grab for a towel, and his chair clatters onto white tile. He flinches, because  _ dammit,  _ he needs to be quiet for god’s sake, because otherwise he’s going to-

“Kon?”

….otherwise he’s going to wake Tim.

He closes his eyes. He counts to ten. Breathes, breathes.

This is fine. Conner is  _ fine. _ Really. 

A stupid asshole who wakes their already sleep deprived boyfriend at three in the morning because they’re so useless they can’t even keep a grip on their own powers, but fine nonetheless.

_ Breathe. _

“Yeah. Just me. Go back to bed, Tim.”

But when he turns around, Tim is still there, leaning against the small open doorway that leads into the kitchen. His hair is a mess of bedhead and the hoodie he’s wearing is wrinkled and stained with what is almost definitely coffee, all of him still sleep-soft and relaxed, like a cat fresh from sunbathing under an open window all day long, and despite himself Kon feels something tight and coiled in his chest loosen, if only slightly.

His boyfriend is looking at him, something too knowing in his eyes. Something too kind. Kon wants to punch through a wall, even though after the fight he had already gone off to an abandoned sea cliff and beaten hard-worn stone down to dust, sent it flying into the rolling ocean below until his breathing came even once more. Until he felt like he was in control again, and could keep all these clashing emotions tucked deep and untouched and unheard.

But then he had gotten back to their apartment and the anger had still been simmering under his skin, and he hadn’t wanted to…  _ contaminate  _ their bed like that, with all this pent up rage that doesn’t belong in their home and in their room and where things are supposed to be  _ safe  _ and  _ happy  _ and at the very least  _ simple. _

They’re superheroes. Their lives are complicated enough as it is. 

And yet Tim stands at the entryway, hardly awake and staring at him,  _ staring _ at him, reading all the little emotions playing across his face, and Kon supposes he should have known better than to expect the detective to not come snooping. 

He wants to bristle. He breathes instead.

_ You are in control. _

His boyfriend looks on, and Kon closes his eyes.

“Tim. Seriously. Go back to bed.”

Predictably, the other man doesn’t. Narrows his eyes at him, startlingly sharp despite the bags under his 

“What happened? Are you okay? I thought… I thought you were spending the weekend at Smallville?”

_ Don’t snap at him,  _ he thinks,  _ don’t you d a r e snap at him. _

“Yeah, well,” and it comes out too bitter, comes out too angry despite all the voices in his brain screaming at him otherwise, “you can see how well  _ that  _ turned out.”

There’s still the table between him and Tim, and Kon is almost glad for it, even soaked as he is. He doesn’t feel  _ safe  _ when he gets like this, angry and tense and twitching with it. Not- not for himself, but for other people.

He’s not safe. He’s not safe for other people to be around, when he’s like this: look at that poor  _ glass. _

_ (He never asked for this-) _

But Tim, fearless as always, steps forwards. Into the kitchen. Closer to Conner. He grabs the towels they have hanging from the oven and throws one at Kon’s face, stooping with the other to clean up the floor, carefully picking up the larger pieces of glass.

There’s something lumping in his throat. There’s something building in his chest. 

“I can do that,” he says, and doesn’t move a muscle.

His boyfriend hums. Glass gathers in his cupped palms, flashing in the warm glow of the fairy lights they had put up the second day after Conner had moved in, because they keep weird hours and because he had liked the way it had made the shorter man smile.

Because it was something so incredibly  _ normal _ , and that’s something Kon craves more than he’d like to admit.

Again, again, Tim asks, “What’s wrong?”

" _ Nothing _ ."

And then, because just by sheer tone of voice it's obvious how much of a lie  _ that _ was-

"I'm just mad at the world right now, okay?"

His voice sounds tired and bitter to his own words, and he clenches his fists and tries not to think about Clark’s patronizing face, tries not to think about anything at all.

For a moment, his boyfriend doesn't say a word, occupied with throwing away the rescued sharps and grabbing the broom. Kon stands there with a cloth in his hands that is still dry, the table beneath him still covered in a slowly creeping puddle, glass forming tiny glaciers across the lukewarm sea. 

Quiet words and knowing phrases. Tim comes to stand next to him, rumpled and soft and too gentle in the face of all his anger, and says, with a sort of knowing that echoes, “You know, anger…. it’s a secondary emotion. It hardly ever starts out as being angry. Usually someone was originally feeling upset, or stressed, or scared.”

Eyes. Blue eyes. Tired, calm blue eyes, and they’re staring right into Kon’s soul, asking  _ so what upset you? _

The growing clump in his throat tastes sour.

“Maybe kryptonians are different.”

“No. I don’t think they are.”

Clench your fists and let the tension go. Breathe,  _ breathe,  _ and with every breath release all the shattered things you keep in your chest. The world does not stop but here he is, still standing, despite it all.

_ Breathe. _

But anger is an ugly thing. It’s an ugly thing, spilling into his lungs, bunching up under his skin. And he’s not safe when he’s like this, not safe for  _ anyone,  _ and he hates it and he never  _ asked for this _ -

“Kon. Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

_ “Kon.” _

_ “Tim!” _

And just like that, all his hard won control is out the window, and he’s just snapped at  _ Tim  _ who’s done nothing wrong and-

“It’s not something you could understand, Tim. It doesn't- It doesn’t fall into a frame of reference.”

His tone is still brittle on all its edges, but at least it’s not shouting.

_ You are in control,  _ he thinks, and starts cleaning up the table just for something to do.

His boyfriend’s got a glint in his eyes, like he’s just a case to be solved, and he tries not to bristle and mostly fails.

“Try me.”

Kon throws away shards of glass. They fall from his hands like a shattering star.

“Unless,” he says, and his voice is too cold, too  _ angry,  _ resonating with that dry sort of anger that  _ aches,  _ “you’ve suddenly gained life experience in becoming a  _ clone,  _ and a family who only keeps you on because of some sort of twisted up  _ blood ties,  _ then I think it would be best for you to just shut up.”

Silence. Silence. He stares at the open trash.

_ “Please.” _

All these frustrations rattling inside his soul. He never asked for this. He never  _ ever  _ asked to exist. 

All this quiet dark. It’s filling up his chest and none of this fair. Not for him, not for the Kents, not for Tim-

Tim.

Tim, who's just wrapped his arms around him from the back, who’s leaning his forehead right at the cusp of his shoulder, hair tickling his neck. He’s breathing, softly, in and out, in and out, and his heartbeat is a slow even tempo thrumming under his skin. 

“Okay,” his boyfriend says, still soft and still gentle, even though Kon’s done nothing but be angry and snappish throughout the entire encounter. Even though he probably doesn’t deserve it.

“Okay, I don’t get  _ that.  _ But, hey,” and Kon starts to pull away, resulting in Tim tightening his grip and raising his head to dig his chin into his shoulder,  _ “hey,  _ I get  _ you.  _ Even if I don’t understand I’m still  _ here for you _ . Through thick and thin and all the craziness that is our lives.” 

Quick as a whip, a pale hand snaps out and grabs onto his own, curling around his tanned calloused fingers, squeezing tight.

And Kon breathes, he  _ breathes,  _ and they stand together in the quiet dark. His boyfriend is soft pressed against him, scarred and gentle and soothing. This is someone who’s held his life in the balance and come through every time. This is someone who has come through hell and is breathing here, still.

Kon has crossed a universe to be with this man. He can cross the range of his emotions, too.

He squeezes back, as gentle as he can.

Tim smiles, kisses his cheek, and pulls away, his phone suddenly pulled close to his face as he squints at the screen, scrolling through…  _ something. _ Kon stares at him, because  _ what,  _ and suddenly with the anger fading away he’s tired and he’s done with the waking world, if only for a while. 

“....What are you doing.”

Flapping a haphazard hand at him, Tim seemingly finds what he’s looking for and sets his phone down on the counter, looking up at him with happy, exhausted eyes of a man who is far too used to getting far too little sleep.

He’s about to question again when soft strains of music start filling the space. It’s a bit tinny, with it only being the phone, but-

But Tim steps forward, settles his arms around Kon’s waist and pulls him forwards, using his grip to sway them back and forth, bit by bit, round and round.

And Conner remembers.

When they had first moved in, boxes scattered around the apartment like a war zone, dancing just like this, or something like it. He had been drunk on something like love, like happiness, drunk on the simple extraordinary fact of being alive. And Tim had been half halfheartedly organizing cutlery until Kon had swept him up, spinning him round and round in a flurry of motion and laughter, his boyfriend rolling his eyes and acquiescing, the rest of the world nothing but a blur as they twisted in tight circles and let the whooshing air pull the laughter out of them.

All the tragedies in the world, and still there are these brilliant moments, snapshots into people and all the echoing truths that do not ache. All the tragedies in the world, and still people wake up to greet each new sunrise, and still they laugh and they bake and they share stories. All of the tragedies, and still there is light, there is joy, there is art and happiness and  _ love. _

Kon never asked to exist, but here he is, here he is, _here he_ _is,_ and it’s these tiny little moments that fill up his chest to the bursting and remind him _why._

All the tragedies in the world, and still there is time to dance in the kitchen with people you love, to hold them close and watch their eyes crinkle bright. To be young and alive and happy. To just  _ be. _

He is more than the things that break. He is more than just anger trembling under his skin. He’s alive, and that will always be something, no matter what.

The music plays, and he listens in to a whole world of people living their messy, crazy,  _ wonderful  _ lives, bickering and joking and reaching out hands to help, hands to hold. Not a single one of them came into this life knowing what was ahead of them. Not a single one of them asked to exist.

And yet, here they are.

Tim starts to hum, a sleepy tune filtering in and out of focus, voice still scratchy from waking up. He smells like coffee and kevlar and sweat, fading deodorant and that peach shampoo they got on clearance once and are still working their way through. He smells like  _ Tim,  _ and Conner holds onto him with hands that were made to shatter, made to break, and all he feels is soft and whole.

The music plays, on and on. It echoes, echoes, settles into his bones.There are a thousand things he could choose to say and not one word needed. 

And this is no fast paced spin, now. It’s a gentle twirling thing, a slow rocking motion matched with quiet breathing and quiet hearts, and Kon finds himself relaxing in increments, bowing his head to lean against Tim’s shoulder.

It's three in the morning and they're dancing in the kitchen. Funny, how these things work.

Life is not perfect. It's not easy, or even simple.  


But it's theirs.

He holds onto Tim and it feels like safety. It feels like love, or maybe a promise: _I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, and you're here with me._

Perhaps it doesn't have a name. 

_ You and me in all this quiet dark,  _ he thinks, and Kon lets himself be spun round and round.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a prompt, or even just a song that puts you in a dancing mood, I'd love to hear about it!!!


End file.
